“Check For Blood.”
That was my first thought after getting hit on the back of the head by the side mirror of a pickup.
It was 10:30 in the evening and I was walking home on J. Elizalde St. in BF Homes (that’s a big subdivision in the Philippines, in case you’re not from these parts).
I was sweaty and tired but feeling good, because I sure do love a good walk, especially after a long day at work. It was dark but far from pitch black.
I was thinking of reaching my house and feeding my cats. I was thinking of whether to check my email or just brush and sleep after my dinner. I was thinking of wha
THUD. I felt an impact on the back of my head. Not sharp, more of a dull pain that instantly radiated to the rest of my skull. More than the pain, though, it was the surprise that stunned me, the surprise that kept me from delivering a better reaction.
All I could think to do was grope on the street for my eyeglasses, which had flown off at the moment of impact.
By the time I had my eyeglasses on and my mind in sufficient condition to think about chasing the bastard, he was too far away. All I could do was absently note the details: pickup truck, grey or bronze.
He got away. Fuck it. Nothing else to do but keep on walking. Walk to the house, cursing stupid drivers and bemoaning the gouges in my eyeglasses. Walk to the house and try to burn off the adrenaline firing up my system. So I walk. I walked another minute, watching the tail lights of the pickup getting farther and farther away.
But, oh, what did I just see? Did I just see the idiot make a U-turn? And was the idiot coming back with his lights off just so I can’t see his plate number? Well, I could see him driving. I can see the two friends with him. Korean? Chinese? Something.
I screamed. “HOYPUTANGINAMOGAGOKA! HOY! TANGINAMODUWAG! DUWAGGGG!” (HeyYourMother’sAWhoreYouIdiot! Hey! YourMother’sAWhoreCoward! Cowardddd!).
At this point, I would like to heartily apologize to the passing tricycle driver for both the language and for scaring him enough to make him swerve onto the sidewalk.
Now, the young man must have been channeling his inner Vanilla Ice because he didn’t stop, he just drove by. He drove by and took a right, into a village. The village that was across the road from where I was hit. The village that was just a minute from where I was, standing and cursing.
So I ran. And I made it in 30 seconds, glasses, bag and all.
I didn’t reach the pickup at the guardhouse. But I did talk to the guard, who confirmed that he was a resident and gave me the guy’s family name. Thank you, guard, for doing your duty and not protecting that bastard.
I talked to the guard and the OIC (Officer In Charge), who tried to mediate. The OIC went over to the guy’s house to ask him to come down to the guardhouse and talk to me.
See, I wanted an apology.
I wanted an apology for almost running me down, and for actually hitting me in the head. I wanted an apology for him running off and coming back with his lights off in an attempt to not be seen.
Did I get it? Hell, no. I got a denial. No, it wasn’t us, look at the side mirror of our pickup, it isn’t broken, we didn’t leave the village the whole night.
Well, think about it, you dumb fuck. If you hit me hard enough to break your side mirror, I would have been face-down on the road. And if you didn’t leave the village, then why did the guard see you enter the village a few seconds before I got there?
You’re a liar, kid. And not a very good one.
Wait, let me be more specific. You’re a liar, kid with the surname of Su from the New South Homeowners Association in BF Homes. And your older brother lied for you (or you misled him, whatever).
You may have gotten away with it last night, but BF Homes is a very small place. I will see you again. You may not have seen my face, but I remember yours.
P.S. I just found out that not only are my eyeglass frames gouged, my head has a red impact mark. And, yes, I still have a headache. So fuck you, Su. #SuPotKa.
